Sartoria, 20 Savile Row, London W1

While carrying out the sort of rigorous background research on which this column relies, I found myself touched to learn that in the early 50s, shortly before opening his first place in London, Sir Terence Conran worked briefly as a washer-up in the kitchen of a smart Parisian brasserie. There's something oddly gratifying about the mental picture of the young Terence living out his own diluted version of an Orwellian nightmare, stood at the sink in a pair of stylish Marigolds and being yelled at by a sous chef. Somehow, the image humanises a long-term laureate of sleek self-delight who could frankly use a little humanising.

In the intervening half century, Sir Terence has, of course, learned how to clean up in catering without getting his hands dirty, compiling a large and lucrative portfolio of restaurants that might be said to form the most upmarket chain in the country. They all have different names, some serve entirely different cuisine from others, yet they are identifiable at 10 paces by the same cynical, clinical approach that makes them at once both highly profitable and intensely irritating.

Some are technically excellent (Plateau in Canary Wharf), others atrocious (Orrery in Marylebone), and most are somewhere in between. But every Conran restaurant in which I've eaten has emanated the identical soulless, joyless aura, suggesting its guiding spirit is a lover not of food, wine and merriment, but of money, marketing and smart veneers.

Sartoria is a paradigm of this. The name, Italian for tailor, is a little drollery marking its position in the temple to self-presentation that is Savile Row, but the restaurant has half the character and individualism of an off-the-peg two-piece from Next. Presided over by charmlessly competent gentlemen in sharp but unbespoke suits, the room (tiled flooring, beige and cream colour scheme, semi-Japanese minimalism) has the feel, so beloved by overpriced modern Italian places, of the first-class lounge at Milan airport. The combination of gentle spotlighting and ambient jazz seems designed to soothe the nerves of the pressured traveller ... or in this case, judging by the shiny clientele, of those frazzled by a morning's toil in the ever-demanding world of public relations. I'd be surprised if David Cameron didn't bring people here when he was the PR man at Carlton TV.

In truth, plenty of people actively warm to the coldness of expense-account magnets such as this, and my friend approved of the space, the distance between tables, the squishy carpet and the expensive furniture. He was less taken with his starter, a medley of wild mushrooms, potato and asiago cheese (£7), which he said was "fairly pointless ... the cheese lends a bit of tang, but still not very exciting". My chargrilled tuna salad (£9.50) with black-eyed beans and finely shredded red onion was fine, but the highlight of the meal was the third starter we shared - a portion of the Tuscan speciality lardo - even if £9.50 seemed a minor liberty for a few thin slices of lavishly salted pig fat (served here not with toast, curiously, but with little cakes flavoured with chickpea). Lardo looks disgusting, it sounds disgusting, but it is one of the great culinary treats.

From there, via a minor tussle with a sommelier keen to recommend wines worth twice the defence budget of Syria, it was gentle decline all the way. My roast monkfish with baked radicchio (£18.50) was a fine piece of fish but very marginally overcooked, as was my friend's osso buco (also £18.50) with chargrilled potatoes. "Nothing at all wrong with that," he said, summing up the meal very neatly, "but I can get a slightly better one at my local Italian for about half the price."

A well-made but slightly bland pudding, hazelnut and apple tart with vanilla ice cream, franked the form, and we left suffused with the feeling of so-whattishness that for me defines rare forays into Conrania.

I suppose one ought to admire the chap's time-honoured brilliance at using clever facades to persuade people into paying over the odds for his wares and thinking themselves privileged to do so. For me, however, to paraphrase Shirley Conran, life's too short to stuff oneself in any more of her ex-husband's sterile clip joints.